Russian Roulette
by CaptainMeriderp
Summary: America. Russia. A war so cold. An abandoned warehouse. A deadly game. Who will win? [Content Warning: Guns and cursing]


_December 15th, 1963_

Why was he told to come to this place? That was the first question that popped into Alfred's head when he saw the type of scenery that appeared before him as the cab pulled into the road of rocks and dirt, the graveyard of the dark arise of metal warehouses slowly growing into view with each passing second. His gloved fingers toyed with the pieces of paper in his hands while he looked down at the sloppy, yet at the same time tidy letter nestled into his hands. It was a request from that Communist bastard to meet him at the given address to discuss terms of ending the "bloodless war" which had arisen over the past twenty years. A meeting face-to-face. Just the two of them. He didn't like it. He didn't trust Ivan as far as he could throw him. One war had just ended, Alfred didn't want to be thrust back into another one. If some kind of deal could actually be worked out, he would hear him out. Taking in a deep breath, he stuffed the papers back into his outside coat pocket, his fingers brushing against the hilt of the gun resting in it's perch inside of his coat. A necessary precaution or maybe it was paranoia, he wasn't sure but no one could ever know whom to trust nowadays.

He was broke from his deep state of thought with the stopping of the car, his eyes falling closed briefly as he took in a deep breath in an effort to calm himself before he opened the car door and slid out of his seat. Pushing the door closed and watching for a moment as the car turned and disappeared back down the road into the darkness of the night, he slowly turned to take a good look at where he had been told to go. It appeared to be an abandoned warehouse, from the look of it, more battered and run down than the others were. He could feel the uncomfortable knots threatening to tie in the pit of his stomach, a deep sinking feeling beginning to overtake the entirety of his being. This was a trap. Fuck. He should have known better. Or maybe it wasn't. But why would he be asked to come somewhere so remote? Regardless, he had a back-up plan at the very least should something actually happen.

As he walked along the gravel, the building grew larger into his view with the closer he became, until he came to the door. His breath hitched in his throat when he felt his fingers press against the damp wood, eyelids closing for a brief second. Calm down, calm down. It would be fine. Maybe. But with the man that he was about to come face-to-face to, no one could ever be sure as to what was going on in that head of his. Never know what he was thinking, planning, feeling. Nothing. As much as he hated to admit it, the Russian was an enigma. Not only to him, but to everyone. From what he knew, it was something that had always been that way. That's what made Ivan dangerous, the calculating mind that Alfred was sure he had behind that childish smile. He couldn't ponder on that, not now. Taking in a deep breath, his hand pushed at the door. The loud, creaking cries of the metal hinges filled his ears and allowed entrance to whatever may have awaited him inside before taking his first steps through the doorway.

His nose was immediately assaulted by a dank, musty, and moldy scent. Covering his mouth with a gloved hand, he was unable to stop himself from coughing. Taking a few seconds to regain his composure, he turned his head upward to look forward at what awaited him. The room before him was black, save for a tiny pinprick of light at the opposite side of the warehouse. Allowing himself a couple of minutes to let his eyes adjust to the dark, he walked forward toward the unknown light. He didn't know what to expect at the end of this path, a path that could very well be the final walk toward his own death. With each step, clouds of dust and dirt arose upward from the floor and fluttered about his legs, clinging to his boots. Each step echoed through the room of pitch black, the light growing ever closer. His breath grew heavier, and beads of sweat slowly trails down his face. His own heartbeat pounding in his ears, the organ feeling as though it were trying to break open his rib cage and claw its way out of his own body. After he stuffed his hands into his bomber jacket pockets, his fingers clutched tightly to the inside lining. Easy Alfred, easy. Calm down. It'll be fine. Yeah. It'll be...Fine.

The clearer the light became, the more that came into view. Rows of wooden shelves covered in metal artifacts long forgotten and covered in blankets of dust materialized as he blinked when the soft creaking of swinging metal begun to fill his ears. His lips curled downward into a deep frown as he quickly looked about the room. Seeing nothing, he took in another deep breath and continued to press forward. The creaking continued to grow steadily louder, the reward was of the sight of a table, one with two chairs on opposite sides. Glancing upward, the swinging lamp dangling from one metal cord fell into his sight. "_That explains the creaking sound..._" The set-up, however, made Alfred feel uneasy, his stomach turning and twisting into knots. One question however fluttered through his mind: Where was the Russian?

Alfred was snapped from his inversion as the echoing clink of metal being placed on wood wafted up into the air. His gaze slowly fell onto the cause of the sound, an old pistol. His heart began to thump violently in his chest, the sensation only growing worse by the foreboding voice that haunted so many in their nightmares. "So...You have actually arrived. I was beginning to think that you wouldn't." That voice. That childish voice. There was something different about it this time, it sounded...Tired, defeated. He didn't have any time to actually think about the potential cause, all he could focus on was the situation he had landed himself into. His fingers clutched even more tightly to the lined insides of his pockets. His bespeckled eyes trained on the frame of the man in front of him, taking quick glances downward toward the gun resting on the table every few seconds.

"What is this?" Despite the attempts to keep his cool, level tone, there was a note of a tremble in his voice. Fear.

"What does it look like to you?"

What did it look like? It looked like the Commie finally went completely nuts. Like he had finally come up with a way to try and get rid of him without any way for him to escape or help himself with the impending war approaching upon the horizon. Maybe that was his plan. To pick up that gun and shoot him and hide him somewhere where no one would ever find him and where he would have no way to get back home or to find his way home. Or maybe he wanted to get rid of the both of them. It wouldn't surprise him at all, nor did he doubt that it wouldn't surprise anyone that they knew, ally or enemy. It had been obvious for at least fifty years that Braginski had gone off the deep end for some reason or another, but for what reason, he didn't care. All he cared about was getting out of this alive, and maybe leave with a few answers if he was lucky.

"What does it look like?" Alfred asked, his tone slowly beginning to rise with each word that came from his mouth. "Ya ask me to come to some secluded warehouse...Whatever this is out in the middle of no-where. With no other people around. And you are sitting there with a damn gun on the table! Ya ask me what it looks like to me, and I'll tell ya what it looks like! It looks like you're gonna go at this with one of two things. You're either gonna pick up that gun and blow my brains out, blow your brains out right in front of me, or blow both of our brains out! Which is it then, huh? That's why ya asked me to come out here, right?! C'mon! Which is it?!"

Deep breaths and lingering words echoed about the room, his blue eyes blazing and glaring behind the frames down at the being before him as his fingers clutched at the top of the back of the chair in front of him. Silence resounded through the room once again for a few moments until to the American's surprise, a faint hint of a smile had crossed upon Ivan's lips after which he began to speak once more. "This small encounter will lead to nothing as you so brashly proclaim it to be, it is something much more...Interesting. I have asked you here to play a game with me, a game in which you have no choice for the conclusion when it does come to its resounding end."

A game, huh? He didn't like the sound of that. What kind of game was-?

A deep, sinking feeling began to burrow in the pit of his stomach to eat at his insides as realization overtook the entirety of his body. Was it-? Shit. He was in deeper trouble than he had originally realized that he was in. The game that he had heard whispers amongst soldiers about when all became to much for them to handle. A game of chance with the end leading to life or death. Chance that all depended on the turn of the revolver and the pull of the trigger, whichever chamber the bullet made its' home in. He had seen good men lost to this so-called 'game,' to many whom had grown too weary from wars prior and merely decided to settle on a gamble to decide if they continued on or not.

Is that what's going on?

"Have you figured out what this is yet?"

The sudden statement tore the American from his train of thought, ripping his gaze away from the pistol to look back toward the man in front of him. Alfred's lips had downturned, if only slightly, into a sneer, rendering him unable to stop the slight tremble that shot through his body. He knew what was happening. Braginski had lost his damn mind. He wanted to drag him down with him. Alfred, like everyone else, knew this guy was nuts, but never in his wildest imagination would he have thought that he was _this _nuts.

"You are scared, are you not?"

The words spoken shot his ears much like that of a bullet piercing his skull, causing a cold shiver to shoot upward from the bottom of his spine. Only then did he realize just how much he was shaking, his hands gripping tightly to the opposite sides of the table. Alfred couldn't stop the low growl from escaping his mouth, he couldn't show weakness. Any weakness. His hands slammed onto the table as the crashing of the falling chair echoed about the air, his breathing falling heavy. His normally bright eyes had darkened behind his glasses, just finding himself staring at the man with the eerily calm smile still sitting before him.

"What kinda sick game are ya playing here?! No I'm not scared and I damn well know what's going on here! What are ya trying to pull, huh?! Hoping that this will kill me? Or is this cause ya have a fucking suicide wish and just want some sort of sick audience to see it?!"

The remaining echoes of his outraged questions lingered for only a couple more moments, his fingers grasping even more firmly to the wood of the table underneath his shaky hands. The suddenness of the outburt it appeared to have no affect on the Russian before him. That smile remained. That smile that made his very blood run cold and sent chills through his bones.

"Ah America...How truly naive you are. You cannot even see my true intention with my calling you here much like to how you cannot even seem to handle your own country's affairs."

The sudden surge of anger shot up from the base of his spine, pushing bile up to his throat. Before he could even say a word or even react, Braginski had picked up the gun with the barrel pointed at his forehead. "You misread my intentions, much as you always have. Now, do be so kind as to pick your chair back up and have a seat. Or is it that you wish for this to end before it has even started?" Though the words were spoken in that sickeningly sweet tone that pissed him off more than anything, there still remained that real threat. Without as much of a word, he did as he was told. All he could was watch the gun with each movement that it made, and that finger pressing against the trigger.

"Now that you are being far more cooperative...I am sure that you are curious as to why I have called you here, yes?" Despite the proposed question, Alfred remained quiet save for the snort of air escaping from his nose. He knew why he was here. Why did he have to answer such a stupid question like that? The spinning of grinding metal suddenly echoed about the room, the revolver turning. That sound that haunted his nightmares. With his lack of an answer, the Russian's smile grew if only slightly. "Oh, so you do not wish to answer? This must be the first time when you have actually fallen speechless."

Alfred kept his silence, the entirety of his being only allowing himself to watch at what begun to unfold in front of him. Braginski with the gun, his thumb gently rubbing at the grip likened to that of a lover with his own expression keeping that chilling calm that he had retained since he had arrived. The question that had lingered in the back of his mind suddenly thrashed its way into the forefront of his thoughts. Realization struck him. The sudden drop of dread in the pit of his stomach, his chest tightening, his body going numb, his eyes widening. This bastard had done this before.

"Now, I will explain to you just how this will go. I am quite sure you know of the rules, and with each turn I will allow you one question. In turn, I will have a question of my own. The pattern will continue until the bullet chooses one of us. Now, let us begin."

Braginski wasted no time after giving his explanation, nor did he wait for an answer in return. He moved in what appeared to be slow-motion as he raised the gun and pressed the barrel to the side of his head. Alfred could feel the breath hitch in his throat, unable to allow himself to believe that this was even happening. This couldn't be happening. This was just one big nightmare that he would wake up from. The click of the pulled trigger shot him from his panicked thoughts, no bullet was fired. No blood. One chamber down...Five more to go. "It is your turn." As the words came, the revolver was placed on the table and was slid across the wood into Alfred's awaiting, shaking grip. Fingers wrapped around the grip, deep dread filling his entire being.

"...Ya said I had a chance to ask a question first, right?" He struggled to keep his voice level and confident through the course of the question despite its faint quake. He couldn't shake the constant flutters of hoards of terrified butterflies in his stomach making him want to throw up. He swallowed hard, the clenching in his throat making it difficult to even to do that.

"Only after you take a turn, yes."

The answer ended with a burning lurch up in his throat, the lumps stronger than ever with the struggle to swallow them down. This wasn't right. This wasn't right at all. He knew that tensions were high, but they were for a good reason. He never imagined that he would end up in this sort of situation because of it. Here where there was no one else around. Here with the one person whom he despised the most. Here with nothing more than a gun pointed to his head and questions that he doubted would even get answered before it was all said and done. He was the one with the gun now. He could just take it and run, however there was a high chance that Braginski had one hidden under his coat. But what if he didn't? No, that was stupid of him to even think about. There was no possible way that that would be the case. He was walking down a dead-end road with nothing but walls around each way that he turned.

There was only one thing that he could do. All he could do was play. There was no other choice that he could make. The pounding in his chest became more and more severe, as though his ribs would break from the pulsations. The gun in his hand grew steadily heavier and heavier with its slow rise upward until the barrell pressed against the side of his head. A shaky breath came when his thumb pulled back on the hammer with that deadly click. All Alfred saw before he closed his eyes was that same smile that Braginski kept throughout this ordeal. That smile that made him both sick and terrified at the same time.

His finger brushed against the trigger, his teeth biting at the side and the inside of his bottom lip to where he could feel blood on his tongue. He didn't want to do this. What if this wasn't an empty chamber? What about... His family. Those whom he cared about more than anything. His eyes squeezed shut and a deep breath was taken as the trigger was pulled.

Click.

An empty chamber.

Burning relief only to be met with pure dread.

There were only four left.

And only two were his.

The taste of the warm saltiness of his own blood on his tongue brought him back down from the grisly, adrenaline-filled high. He could feel his head spinning as he lowered the gun onto the table. He allowed himself a few quick breaths to recollect his composure. Even when he opened his eyes, he was still met with that smile. "Ho-" Alfred caught himself, swallowing the bile that threatened to claw up his throat. He had to be careful about this, and he nearly blew a priceless question for the first thing that shot through his mind. He had so many questions, but a very limited number that he would be able to ask.

"Yes, America? You were about to say something." God there was that sickeningly innocent tone again. His hands clenched as his brows furrowed and he tried to ignore the sweat that had begun to trail down the sides of his face. Keep his cool. Don't show any weakness. Don't show the enemy any fear. Don't show just how scared he was. He wouldn't lose. Not to _him._

"...Why are you doing this?" His words were more shaky and uncertain than he had hoped that they would be. Shit. Chills shot up his spine when Braginski chuckled in response, as though ice had pierced his very core. That the Russian felt nothing for the danger or the consequences. Or he didn't even care. Even he himself, as if acting merely on impulse, slid the gun across the table into awaiting hands.

"So you haven't come to figure this out? I am quite surprised at you, I had thought that with current affairs you would have quickly. It would appear as though I was wrong." Even as the Russian spoke, Alfred could only remain quiet and listen even though he couldn't stop himself from emitting a low growl.

"Now now, there is no need for that. We both know you are already the lapdog for your government, in particular given your most recent decisions." The tone in his voice had slightly changed now, as for what he couldn't put his finger on as to what it was. But he didn't care. All he could feel was the gritting of his own teeth, anger at the words spoken bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. His fingernails dug into the pits of his own palms, the sharp pain drawing him back if only a little.

"And how am I a lapdog, huh?! You're really the one to talk! You're the one who's been the Red's attack dog for how many years now? And now what? Tryin' to go into countries where ya don't belong and try to convert them over to your sick idealology?!" Alfred couldn't stop the scalding snap, his voice rising with each word spoken as his balled fists slammed down onto the table with a loud thudding echo. His breathing drew heavy after he said his piece, watching the one before him as he gave a sigh.

"...Is that not what you yourself have done? Interfering where you do not belong, forcing your own ideals on others where they are not wanted? Going wherever your leaders tell you to go? Doing what they ask of you without question? You claim that I go into these places merely to spread my belief in how a country should be handled, and yet you come and do the same once I do. You have done so before, and now you are merely doing so once again."

A sharp shiver shot up his body, his growl becoming more pronounced. That wasn't right. He was just trying to rile him up. Make him doubt himself. Make himself belief that his actions and decisions were wrong based on his own biased beliefs. He didn't go into other countries to shove his own beliefs on those people. He didn't do that.

...Did he?

"I don't do that kinda thing! Stop trying to mess with my head!" Alfred's sharp words were merely re-met with that same chilling smile once more.

"You are young and blind _comrade_. You believe that what you do is for the good of all, going to these different places merely in an effort to contain what I and my country bring? Yet you cannot handle the affairs in your own country, issues that you yourself cannot see due to your own foolish pride. Now, you have done so once again. You cannot see the consequences of what is going to happen from it, or is it that you do not want to? That is the reason as to why I have brought you here."

"So ya brought me here to potentially kill me and give me some kinda lecture over crap that's not even true?" He hissed back, the entirety of his body shaking. None of it was true. He had to do what he did and was doing now to stop the spread of something that was evil. The commies only caused problems, he himself had seen it over the past fifty years in his own country. Hysteria and fear, all starting with the one before him. With the rise of the Bolsheviks, Lenin, and Stalin. The Reds continued to spread, only leaving chaos and death in their wake.

"You misunderstand my motives, however, now it is time to continue." That calm voice again that spoke so easily about something so deadly even if his luck could potentially be up. Alfred's breath hitched in his throat, the feeling of a series of large rocks dropping into his stomach. It was starting again. No more time to talk and stall for time. He wasn't even given a chance to even attempt to think of some kind of plan for escape. All he could do now was watch the man before him, watch as his fingers wrapped around the grip and raised it upward toward his head. Something was different this time. Even though that smile was still there, there was a certain tension in his movements. One lone bead of sweat appeared and slowly slid down the contours of his face.

Was he actually getting nervous? Was the reality of what was happening beginning to sink in? He didn't know for sure, but that's what it appeared to be even as the barrel pressed once more against the side of his skull. Was that a quiver in his lip? The soft click of the draw-back of the hammer, the gloved finger brushing against the trigger with eyes closing. A sharp breath with the push of the trigger, the tensing of the Russian's body only to be met with an empty click. Held shaky breaths were both released as he lowered the gun back onto the table. Half of the chances were gone, only three were left.

The soft grind of metal moved across the table as the gun was slid in his direction to shaking hands. Time and luck were quickly running out, with only a fifty percent chance of making through this was left. His head begun to swim, due to nerves and dizziness from the unintentional lack of breath or heavy breathing. The constant pounding in his chest grew worse, the pains feeling as though his heart had burst. His stomach became a never-ending black hole of bile that continued with it's never-ending assault on his throat.

He couldn't even say anything, knowing that he would get no answer in return. He had to take a chance and hope and pray that he would live through this round. That his good luck wouldn't cease, not now. Not yet. Even the gun as he rose it upward toward his head felt much heavier than before, a feeling that he never got used to. The dead weight of people whom a gun had already killed. Alfred pressed the barrel against the side of his head, sweat dripping down the back of his neck as a burning sense of cold swept over him. The odds were grim. He flinched when he heard that chilling click.

Dread once more overtook him, his eyes squeezing closed as his mind rapidly assaulted him with images of the life that he had lived to this point. All of the things that he had done, all of the bad and the good. Things that he was ashamed of, things that he wished he could say that he was sorry for. Things that his pride wouldn't allow him to say. He couldn't even say he was sorry. Alfred didn't even feel the scorching tears spill from his eyes when he pulled the trigger.

Click.

He survived again by some stroke of holy luck.

Lowering the gun with a shaky breath, he quickly wiped his eyes of the offending emotions. Fuck. Why was he crying in a situation like this? Quickly sliding the gun to the other side of the table, he allowed himself a second to recollect himself. Weakness wasn't an option. Not here. Not now. Not when the situation was so dire now. There were only two chances left. It was either him or Braginski, with odds that he didn't like. "Since you have survived once more, you may ask one more question."

That's right. The questions. However, what was the point now? All he would get would be a round-about answer that wouldn't answer his question at all. Maybe that was how Braginski wanted it, to get him to doubt himself. To get himself to doubt everything that he had done even though it put him at great risk as well. No, that wasn't something that he could allow to happen. Doubt wasn't an option when he knew that what he was doing was right, he couldn't allow himself to think that Kennedy would have died for nothing. To believe that McCarthy was wrong. That Johnson was wrong. That all of his actions were wrong. The feeling of cold and ice filled his body, sharp shivers coursing through his entire being to his very core.

"...Why are ya taking such a big of a risk as this?" As much as he didn't want to know the why, at the same time he did. Why take such a big risk as something like this even though they both knew they couldn't die? Or maybe...Was that what he actually wanted? The Russian paused for a moment as if pondering his answer, fingers brushing gently along the cold metal.

"Betrayal." That word was said so simply, so sharply without any sort of explanation to follow. Alfred didn't understand what he was talking about, doubting he would even get an answer regardless. Braginski didn't even utter one more word as his eyes closed with the gun raising and barrel pressing against his head. He could hear soft whispers that he couldn't even understand, now was his chance. His chance to run while he could, a chance that he had to take. Carefully raising himself out of the seat, he could under the dim light see tears. For the reason as to why, he couldn't afford to think about. He had to go and go now. Stepping back with slow, careful steps, the echoed click of the pull back of the hammer arose into the air.

He was a coward.

But he couldn't die here.

Nor could he have this kind of blood on his hands.

Without a second thought, he turned and ran. Alfred ran as fast as he possibly could until the lights were far from sight through the clouds of dust rising toward the awaiting double doors. Once he found his mark, he paused for a moment to catch his breath with his hands pressed against the door.

Crack. The sound of a gunshot echoed about the entirety of the warehouse but nothing else. Alfred's eyes widened as his heart jumped up into his throat. He threw the doors open and ran outside into the seering cold. He had to get out of there and not go back. Or look back. Whatever demons plagued Braginski, they would return whether or not the bullet pierced his brain. No gun could fix anything or cure whatever dark thoughts that went through that addled mind. Not for him, not for any of them.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I can't believe I actually got this finished. I started on this over a year ago, finally finished a few weeks ago, and got it edited a couple of days ago. Hard to believe it is actually finished after everything that happened to get it to this point. I hope y'all enjoyed it!

**Notes:**

**Red:** Slang term used for communists, people believed to be communists during the Red Scares, and the USSR.

**Historical Notes:** This is set after the beginnings of the Sino-Soviet Split and the beginnings of the Vietnam War after America got involved. For more information, feel free to ask.

"In the 1960s, a new generation of revisionist historians—disillusioned by the Vietnam War and appalled by seemingly endemic government dishonesty—offered a startlingly different interpretation. In this revisionist view, Stalin may have been a Machiavellian despot but he was an essentially conservative one; he was more interested in protecting the Soviet Union (and his own power within it) than in dominating the world. Americans erroneously interpreted Stalin's legitimate insistence upon a security buffer in Poland to indicate a desire for global conquest; Americans' subsequent aggressive efforts to contain Soviet influence, to intimidate the Soviets with the atomic bomb, and to pursue American economic interests around the globe were primarily responsible for starting the Cold War." (  .  )

"Moreover, since 1956 (when Nikita Khrushchev denounced the legacy of Stalin), China and the USSR had progressively diverged about Marxist ideology, and, by 1961, when the doctrinal differences proved intractable, the Communist Party of China formally denounced the Soviet variety of communism as a product of "Revisionist Traitors".[1]" (Shmoop)


End file.
